


The Pegasus Eagle.

by Basingstoke



Category: Donald Strachey - Stevenson, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Character of Color, Crossover, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-30
Updated: 2007-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-02 17:36:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basingstoke/pseuds/Basingstoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are gunmen in Timothy's house, messing up his kitchen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pegasus Eagle.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Shrift for the beta! (And if you know one fandom or the other but not both, I tried to make this readable either way.)

"Today was weird," Donald said. He took Timothy's briefcase and kissed his cheek.

Interesting. Watson was asleep in his basket, which meant Donald wore him out with a walk already. Timothy lifted his chin as Donald loosened his tie. Frisky, then. Timothy loved it when Donald came home frisky. And they'd been melancholy, these past few weeks, still grieving. The change felt good. "I'll say. You're home before me. How's the new case? Did you, uh, find anything?"

"Nothing. Thin air. But the boyfriend is very suspicious, I think he knows something."

"Oh? Like what?"

Donald shrugged. "Something. Don't worry. Your friend will get his eagle back."

Well, Timothy didn't want his friend to get his eagle back, but that wasn't something he could tell Donald just yet. "So what was weird?" he asked.

"Well, about an hour ago? This guy shows up." Donald unbuttoned Timothy's shirt and petted his chest hair.

Timothy frowned. Well, that explained the friskiness. Donald never stepped out, not since they decided on monogamy; he always brought it home. "Someone cute?"

"Aw, you know. Tall, dark, gorgeous... that's what I like." Donald nuzzled up and slipped his hands into Timothy's pockets. "But you're prettier. This other guy, he's Air Force, and they're all dicks."

"Oh, really." Timothy stroked Donald's hair with his chin. "What did he do?"

"He walks in like he owns the place. Comes right over, picks up all the stuff on my desk, and says to hand over the eagle."

"What a dick," Timothy said.

"Air Force." Donald huffed into Timothy's neck. "I tell him I haven't found it yet. He says don't lie, I'm like get bent, get out of my office. And he's like, I know all about you, Donald Strachey, and I'm asking nicely, and this is bigger than you or me. This is big, this is the world at stake here."

"Dramatic," Timothy said.

Donald nodded. "It was kind of sexy," he said, and grinned when Timothy huffed.

"So was that it?" Timothy asked. "He walked in, rearranged your desk, and told you to give up the goods?"

"Then lit a cigarette off his shoe and told me the big boss wouldn't be happy," Donald said, and Timothy had to kiss him. And then one thing led to another.

Afterwards, once he'd caught his breath and found his pajama pants, Timothy spooned up behind Donald and murmured in his ear, "And what was this Air Force vixen's name?"

"Don' know... don' care," Donald said into the pillow.

"Good." Timothy kissed the back of his neck.

*

It was disconcerting to wake up and look into a strange man's eyes. "Morning," the other man said. Timothy refocused and saw the barrel of a gun pointed at his nose. His mouth went dry. He elbowed Donald gently.

Donald sat straight up beside Timothy and Timothy heard Donald's gun cock. "Back off," Donald said.

"I don't think so," said the gunman.

"Take that gun off my husband or I put a bullet between your eyes," Donald growled low and slow.

Timothy believed him. So did the gunman, because he pointed his gun up at Donald instead.

"See, now we can talk," and Donald stood up in the bed, naked, and stared down at him. "I told you I didn't know where it was."

"And I happen to know you were lying. So the question becomes, why?"

This must be the man from last night. "I'm calling the police," Timothy said.

"Police are on my side. So's Homeland Security," the gunman said. "This is bigger than you know."

"Yes, you'll forgive me if I don't take your word for it," Timothy said, and he reached for the phone on the bedside table. The gunman didn't even glance at him, so he didn't notice when Timothy, instead of dialing, pitched the cordless handset at his head.

Softball champ in seminary. The handset hit the man square in the forehead, and when the man recoiled in pain, Donald jumped on him and yanked the gun away. "Outstanding, baby," Donald said, kneeling on the man's back and twisting his arms up behind him.

"Yes, I know--watch out!" Timothy said. The man grabbed Donald's balls and squeezed. Amazingly, Donald didn't scream, but he turned very pale and lost his grip. The man squirmed away from Donald; Timothy hit him in the kneecap with Watson's meter-long Kong toy, then kicked the one gun he could see under the bed.

"Son of a bitch!" the man grunted, holding his knee. And Donald came up with the other gun. Job well done.

Then, of course, the other six men burst into the bedroom.

*

Timothy glared at the two soldiers shaking down his kitchen. Emptying out his flour bins, who would do that? And into the sink, so the drain would clog. Usually when people broke in and ransacked the place--and really, who would have thought this would have happened to *him* more than once--they had the decency not to muck up the plumbing.

And the dog! Poor Watson, he was shut in the broom closet, barking with annoyance. At least he didn't seem to be hurt, and at least Timothy and Donald weren't handcuffed, though the original gunman--his name was Sheppard, apparently, and Timothy didn't think he was that hot--was glowering at him in a way that made it clear he wanted to. His knee was wrapped up in an Ace bandage. Donald was glaring back as he sat beside Timothy in his fleece robe. His knees were spread, giving his abused manhood some space.

"Marines," Donald muttered to Timothy, "but he's Air Force, and those two, they're special forces or contractors." He cut his eyes at two people in plain clothes investigating the bar.

"It's not in the kitchen! It's here somewhere, but not in there," said another man, a rounder, paler fellow staring at a Blackberry. "Would you quit with the flour?" He paced circles around the living room backwards and the soldiers ducked away out of his path.

"Shouldn't have lied to us," Sheppard said. "That thing McKay has is a Geiger counter. A few more days and you might start glowing."

"What?" McKay looked up from the machine. "It's not radioactive! Weren't you listening?"

Sheppard shot him a glare. McKay rolled his eyes. "Here," he said, gesturing at the fireplace.

"There's nothing in the fireplace but stone and cement! Very expensive stone and cement! Stop wrecking my house!" Timothy yelled. He started up from the couch; Donald, still seated, kept hold of his hand and kept him from jumping at the soldiers advancing on his fireplace.

Donald squeezed his hand. One of the plain-clothes, a tall, bronze-skinned beauty who would have weakened Timothy's knees in a less fraught moment, looked him and Donald up and down, then crawled into the fireplace himself. He sifted through the ashes with his fingers. "Here."

He held up something that looked like a cigarette butt plated gold. Timothy looked at Donald. "I have no idea what that is," Donald said.

"Part of it. But not the part we need," McKay said, pacing back and forth. "They split it up. Damn!"

The other plain-clothes, a small and dangerous-looking woman, looked Timothy in the eye. "Where is the rest of the eagle?" she asked him.

She was... intense, fierce and fiery, and Timothy was caught by her. Oh, God, he wasn't used to being interrogated. What was he supposed to say? What happened in his life that a woman who could clearly kill with her thumbnail was grilling *him* on stolen top-secret radioactive--no, wait, not radioactive--

Donald pulled on his hand hard and Timothy sat back down, almost in Donald's lap. "We *don't know,*" Donald said. "Leave him alone." Timothy took a deep breath and let it out, slowly, closing his eyes. Too early for all this drama. He needed coffee before he freaked out.

"Losing time," McKay said pointedly.

"All right. Take Teyla and go find it. We'll stay here and keep an eye on these guys." Sheppard scowled at Donald. "If you'd told me the truth to start with, we wouldn't have to do this little dance," he said.

"I told you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. But I've found the military doesn't like hearing it much."

"Oh yes, very macho," McKay grumbled under his breath as he sped out.

Sheppard settled into a chair across from Donald. They both crossed their arms.

"Do you mind if I make some coffee?" Timothy asked. "I mean, if you're through smashing the beans."

"Sure," Sheppard said.

"Can I have some too?" asked the bronze beauty. Goodness, but he was a stunner. Timothy got up to make the coffee.

*  
The bronze beauty's name was Ronon and he was very appreciative of Timothy's coffee. Very appreciative. Timothy reminded himself he was married and asked, "What exactly are you looking for?"

Ronon shrugged. "Something that doesn't belong here. Needs to be taken back to where it does."

"Oh, I see." Not a very informative answer. Not that he minded, out of that mouth... Timothy pinched himself.

Ronon finished another cup. "You can make coffee like this all the time?"

"Every morning. Donald's a beast without it."

"Heh. So's McKay. Think he would chill out more with coffee like this?"

"Real cream is the key."

"Cream?" Ronon looked confused.

"Cream. Not creamer, actual cream." Timothy showed him the carton. Ronon tipped some into the dregs in his cup and investigated.

"Sheppard!" Ronon yelled. Sheppard jumped to his feet, winced, and sat back down.

"What?"

"We have to get some of this. Lots. I need this all the time," Ronon said.

Donald glared at all of them. Timothy raised an eyebrow at him slightly; trust me, sweetheart. Donald lowered his in return, because he did. "Quit giving the Air Force the good stuff," Donald said. "They're stuck up enough as it is."

Sheppard snorted. "Army, right?"

"Army. Sergeant. *Enlisted,*" Donald said, which clearly meant something very important that Timothy couldn't begin to understand.

"Air Force, Lieutenant Colonel, pilot. Maybe you should salute," Sheppard said.

"I'm not Air Force. What else do you have in there?" Ronon asked, and Timothy showed him the fridge.

The leftover chutney-baked ham was a big hit. Timothy watched it disappear with no small satisfaction. "Twirlybird," Donald muttered.

"Watch it. You're the prisoner here."

"I took you down," Donald replied.

"Two against one."

"Two naked, sleeping queers against one big strong man with backup," Donald sneered. "I'm surprised you can hold your head up."

Sheppard didn't retort, just stared Donald down, both of them blinking slowly, veins standing out in their foreheads. Sheppard was still sweating. There was a vivid red blotch over his eye where Timothy had phoned him.

"Heh," Ronon said, looking at the two of them. Was that--no, that couldn't be a laugh. "The ring means married, right?" Ronon asked Timothy. He pointed at the ring on Timothy's right hand.

"We have a mortgage together," Donald replied before Timothy could. "That's closer than married." He twisted his matching ring around his finger.

Sheppard didn't look away from Donald. "Two men can't get married in this country. It's not legal yet."

"No laws against swearing to love and honor someone for the rest of your natural life, though," Donald said.

"Yes, we're married," Timothy said quietly.

"You guys have a lot of weird rules," Ronon said. He leaned back on the counter top and looked over at Sheppard and Donald. The death stare match was ongoing.

"Where are you from, Ronon?" Timothy asked conversationally.

"Um." It seemed like he had to think about it. "Kyrgyzstan."

"Really? How are you getting on, post-Soviet Union? I imagine it's a relief to have your country back?" Timothy asked.

"Um. Yeah."

"I'm so fascinated by the situation there." Timothy folded one hand under his chin.

"Russians are assholes," Ronon said.

"Yes?" Timothy said encouragingly.

Ronon shrugged. "And I like it here."

"Hey!" Sheppard called over. "What's with the third degree?"

"It's called pleasant conversation," Timothy said mildly.

"He's a really good cook. I like him."

"*Thank* you."

Sheppard got to his feet again, wincing as he put weight on his knee. "Come here, we need to chat." He gestured to Ronon and they walked outside slowly.

Donald jumped up and crossed to Timothy. "Twirlybird's a closet case. Asshole. You okay?"

"If I swoon, let Ronon give me CPR." Timothy kissed Donald.

"Deal." Donald grabbed the back of his head and kissed him harder. "He's not Kyrgyz, you know. Kyrgyz are Asian."

"...Oh?"

"Central Asian tribe between Russia and China."

"I see," Timothy said.

Donald grinned. "I'm not just a dumb blond, baby."

"What are we going to do?" Timothy asked.

"Lose Twirlybird and figure out what's going on. Got any ketamine in your manbag?"

He meant Timothy's briefcase; Timothy rolled his eyes. "No."

They both looked at the door, where they could see Sheppard and Ronon's shadows against the glass along with the two guards. "We could take them out with a frying pan," Timothy suggested. "The small cast iron would put a dent in anyone's head."

"I'd rather not go to Gitmo," Donald said.

"Oh. Yes." He shook his head. "What are we thinking? I'm calling our lawyer."

*

Harrison Zellman was an old family friend. Large, stolid, Jewish, senior captain of the football team when Timothy was a small, nerdy freshman. Their fathers knew each other from *their* high school days. Timothy had first been relieved when Harrison easily accepted his partnership with Donald, then somewhat alarmed when Harrison found Donald's scrapes hilarious.

Harrison laughed so hard he dropped the phone when Timothy told him he and Donald were under house arrest by the United States military. "I'll be there in five!" he gasped out, then hung up the phone.

Sheppard opened the front door and glared at them. "We have your phone tapped. Don't try any funny stuff." He limped back in, and Timothy noticed his eye was starting to swell shut.

"Would you like some ice for your head?" Timothy offered. Donald elbowed him. Timothy hip-bumped him back.

"No! Ronon, get in here." Sheppard held his forehead as he limped to the living room.

"You should get some ice for that," Ronon said when he looked in on Sheppard. "Looks bad." Timothy wordlessly retrieved the cold pack from the freezer and passed it to Ronon.

"God dammit, I don't need any ice!" Sheppard batted the pack away.

Ronon pressed it to his head anyway. "You should probably see a doctor."

"I'm *fine.*"

"I can watch them myself."

"You're being seduced by ham," Sheppard said darkly.

Donald jerked his thumb towards the stairs. "Are you done rifling through the underwear drawer? Because I want to get dressed." Sheppard waved his hand, which Timothy took to be permission. He and Donald went upstairs.

"Shower," Timothy told him, "you're covered in machismo."

Donald grinned. "Come in with me. Freak out the closet case."

"I don't know, he doesn't ping for me," Timothy said as he shrugged out of his robe.

"Come on! It's written all over him. Plus, he grabbed my balls," Donald said.

Timothy glanced down at Donald's balls. "Well, they're a big target."

"Thank you. But you don't grab balls unless you're comfortable with them."

"Donald."

"What?"

"Do you really care?"

Donald took a deep breath. "No. But he pisses me off," he said as Timothy pulled him into the shower.

"I hadn't noticed."

Donald relaxed visibly as Timothy washed his back, leaning his palms against the tile. "Ronon likes you," Donald said. "Might try to keep you. Why the hell are they trying to pass him as Kyrgyz? Nothing in the house is halal, he obviously doesn't care... and that hair, that's five, six years of dreads at least."

"So he's from some country we shouldn't be dealing with, maybe. Cuba."

"Maybe this is bigger than we know," Donald said. He turned around, took the washcloth from Timothy, and stroked it over Timothy's chest. "This is your friend looking for it, Timmy. He got any state secrets?"

"No." Timothy's heart beat faster, wondering what--*why*--how? He turned away and washed his face, and Donald did the same.

*

He nearly had a heart attack when they finally emerged from the bathroom, because Ronon was standing not one foot from the door. "Thought maybe you were making a break for it," Ronon said.

Timothy snapped his bathrobe closed.

He pulled as many clothes on as he could under his robe, because Ronon didn't leave the room. He was looking at the pictures on their dresser, their clothes in the closet, Timothy's tie rack, Watson's chew toys.

Donald took Timothy's hand again as they descended the stairs, running his thumb back and forth across the small bones and knuckles. Donald's hand was hard, corded with muscle from all the gun practice. Comforting. When being strong-armed, it was good to know there was a strong arm on his side as well.

Something was strange... Sheppard's head was back on the couch. "Sheppard?" Ronon said behind them. "Sheppard!"

Ronon jumped the stair rail and ran to the couch. Sheppard's head rolled limply when Ronon shook him and his eye opened halfway, showing only the white.

*

The medical facility wasn't a hospital--Timothy was unfortunately familiar with all the hospitals in Albany--but looked more like a science lab, small and beige. There were as many soldiers as doctors bustling around. Ronon sat in a too-small plastic chair beside them, head in his hands.

Timothy leaned in close to Donald and whispered, "Was it the fight? Did we give him a concussion?" Donald held Timothy's hand in both his and kissed the ball of his thumb.

"No," Ronon said without raising his head. "Wasn't you."

The treatment room door swung open and McKay and the woman--Teyla--left the room. McKay sat beside Ronon heavily. "My brain stopped working. I'm done. He's dying," McKay said, sounding exhausted. Ronon didn't reply.

"Your name is Timothy?" Teyla asked.

Timothy nodded. He glanced up at her quickly, but couldn't bear that fierce gaze again.

"Our friend is poisoned. The eagle contains the antidote. Please," she said. "The time for secrets is over. Can you say that your promise is worth the life of a good man?"

"No," Timothy whispered.

Donald's hand tightened. "What was that?"

"I'm sorry! I didn't think Bill would hire you, of all people! Melly wanted her boyfriend to have it, they found it together--I know, she should have made a will, but--oh, let's go," Timothy said, feeling sick to his stomach.

*

Teyla drove. Timothy gave directions. Ronon and Donald sat in the back. "I had to dig through a dumpster," Donald said bitterly.

"I'm sorry!"

"I guarantee you have no idea how disgusting that is."

"Take a left," Timothy told Teyla.

"Not to mention it might be fraud," Donald carped.

Ronon said, softly, "Shut up."

The weight of a dying man hung in the atmosphere after that. Even Donald couldn't ignore it. "Veer right," Timothy said.

They ended up at a tree of no particular importance to anyone other than Timothy and his dead friend. Timothy pulled his coat off, preparing to climb the tree, but Teyla was halfway up the trunk before he got out of both sleeves. "Uh, higher--the moss--under the moss. Yes," he sighed. "And I'm sorry."

It was just a little thing, a double-headed brass eagle the size of Melly's fragile hand. But it was Byzantine, which is why her father wanted it, and with her death intestate, he was legitimately entitled to it.

Timothy never did see how exactly it would save Sheppard's life, or even if it did. It disappeared into the clinic with the two plain-clothes and McKay, and Donald and Timothy were driven back home by a silent and disapproving Marine.

Harrison was leaning on his car outside their house. "Hey!" he called out. "You didn't wait up!"

"Cases move at their own pace," Donald said. He filled Harrison in on the fisticuffs, leaving out the eagle entirely, while Timothy let poor Watson out of the closet and took him for a pee.

"Hah! Self-defense, no problem," Harrison said. "Ha hah! You're a riot, Strachey." He clapped Donald on the shoulder and pointed at Timothy. "Take care of him! I like this guy!"

"Will do," Timothy said, bemused.

Harrison took off in his Lexus. Watson chased the clanking radiator up and down the baseboards. Timothy sat at the counter rubbing his temples and wondering if he'd done the right thing at any point.

Donald nudged Timothy's hands away and took over the rubbing. "Good intentions," Timothy said.

"I have no idea what I'm going to tell Chiswick. Government confiscated his eagle, I guess? Let him take it up with them."

"I'm sorry."

"Why? You did the right thing," Donald said.

Timothy closed his eyes and leaned back against him. "Give me a moment to sort through the tangled threads of right and wrong, honey." Donald dropped a kiss on his head and held him close. They weren't over Melly's death yet, either of them. She'd been sick, but not that sick; she was actually having a good period in her illness when the aneurysm took her.

"Who put that cigarette butt in our fireplace?" Donald asked suddenly.

"Melly. She thought it was ugly, pried it off the bottom, and threw it in the fire right before she gave it to me to store." Timothy looked up at Donald. "That's the problem, isn't it? She didn't want to look at the ugly side of anything. If she'd just made a will..."

"I'm leaving you everything. The mortgage, my car." Donald smiled.

"But I thought you loved me."

Donald bit his throat and Timothy laughed until he suddenly realized it was Thursday and he was vastly late for work; he called in sick, then, and let Donald take him back to bed.

the end.


End file.
